


Autopsies of the Rich and Famous

by Tyleet



Series: Necrophilia [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-08
Updated: 2012-03-08
Packaged: 2017-11-01 16:21:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/358861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyleet/pseuds/Tyleet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“She’s been at the center of two political scandals in the last year, and recently ended the marriage of a prominent novelist, by having an affair with both participants--separately.” </p><p>Molly resolves, for the thousandth time, to stop reading the tabloids.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Autopsies of the Rich and Famous

**Author's Note:**

> I had a really hard time trying to decide what the pairings should be on this one. Because, on the one hand, it's technically gen? But there are serious under/overtones of Molly/Sherlock and John/Sherlock, and when I sat down to write this, I assumed it would be Molly/Irene--and I think it is that, too. 
> 
> Soon to be followed by an explicitly Molly/Irene sequel. :)

The first time Molly Hooper hears anything about Irene Adler, it’s in the _Star_. _Mystery woman ends Macca’s fourth marriage!_ the title screams, and Molly shakes her head, because it’s sad, really—the poor man hasn’t been happy since Linda. But along with the pictures of Paul looking old and irritated, paparazzi photos of Nancy with red-rimmed eyes, there’s a picture of a woman with an enigmatic smile and a dark fur coat, caught leaving the McCartney residence. _The Mysterious Irene Adler_ , the caption reads, _The Third Person In Their Marriage!_

It’s such a shame, Molly thinks, and resolves, for the thousandth time, to stop reading the tabloids.

She sees the name in the press a few more times after that—usually linked to political scandals, every once in a while seen with a beautiful actress or artist at a restaurant, each article progressively laden with more sly suggestions about what it is, exactly, that makes Irene Adler so attractive to the rich and famous.

It’s just another name, though, just something else she reads in the magazines, until that horrible Christmas when Sherlock humiliates her and then kisses her and then walks around the morgue looking pale and distraught—for Sherlock. Him talking about Irene Adler is about as unexpected as him bringing up Tyra Banks, or a celebrity chef, or someone. But he looks down at that naked body and—she’s almost sure—there’s a flash of real pain on his face.

A few days later, she does the autopsy, and it’s strange. She’s also never done an autopsy on anyone famous before. Occasionally she’s run into the bodies of people she’d recognized—from the Tube, or once a barista she’d always nodded at, but never someone whose name she’d known. _Hello, Irene Adler_ , she thinks as she gets to work, making the initial incision between those small, white breasts, opening her up. _You’ve slept with Sherlock Holmes, haven’t you? And Paul McCartney. Not to be disrespectful, or anything, but god, I’m jealous. Stupid, I know, being jealous of a body—you obviously had some bad luck at the end. But still. You must have really been something_. She wishes the face wasn’t so completely disfigured. She would have liked to be able to see what he’d seen, there.

Only then, months later, John Watson tells her off-handedly that Irene Adler’s alive, that it was all a trick.

“But—Sherlock recognized her,” Molly stammers, thinking about the body’s hands with their long red nails, hands she imagined gently touching Sherlock’s face.

“Yeah,” John says, looking annoyed, though not at her, “Well. Between you and me, he’s a bit off his game when it comes to her.”

“So she is his—girlfriend, then,” Molly says, and immediately wishes she hadn’t when John looks at her with thinly disguised pity.

“Who knows, Molly,” he says, finally. “It’s Sherlock Holmes, after all.”

And Sherlock does seem off his game. She’s known him for six years—far longer than John Watson, although Sherlock’s never liked her half as much—but she knows him well enough to tell that. His sudden bursts of inspiration, the petulant sulking when he hasn’t figured it out, after all. And it’s all because of her? Who _is_ this woman?

“Gone,” John tells her, a month after that. He looks tired. “Really, this time. Don’t bring it up to him, all right? He’d never admit it, but he’s not dealing with it all that well.”

“I won’t,” she promises, because she loves Sherlock Holmes, and John knows that, because he talks to her like this even though she knows he doesn’t much like her, either. He’s been good for Sherlock. Wonderful, even—and a lot of it is exactly this, the way he’s been very determined about making Sherlock a kind of safety net out of the people around him, people to have at Christmas and help him stay off the drugs, even though none of them are exactly Sherlock’s friends.

It feels like a betrayal, then—like a personal betrayal, she means--when Sherlock asks her, almost a year later, to help him die.

“You can’t tell John,” he says, voice hard, “You can’t tell anyone, Molly, you have to promise.” And she does promise, because she loves him, stupid though it is, and that means she’ll hurt whoever it is he needs her to hurt, because he’s Sherlock, the cleverest man alive, and it will end up being the smart thing to do.

Molly goes to the funeral, and at first she’s afraid she won’t be able to cry, but one look at John Watson’s face and she’s choking into her handkerchief, which is a relief, because it means everything will be fine, she won’t give it all away.

Which is why she’s so badly shaken when she’s leaving the funeral, headed for the closest Tube station, and an arm slips through hers and a woman’s voice says confidentially in her ear, “Now, then, where is Sherlock Holmes?”

Molly tries to jerk away, but the woman tightens her grip on Molly’s arm. “I don’t think you want to make a scene, Miss Hooper. You never know who could be watching.” Molly stills, and gets a good look at the woman smiling calmly at her.

She’s short—an inch shorter than Molly, even in heels—but strong, guiding her along the pavement effortlessly. Her hair is a plain dishwater blonde, and her clothes are formal but unremarkable, and she’s wearing dark sunglasses that cover a good third of her face, but she’s got a sly half-smile that Molly recognizes.

“You’re Irene Adler,” she blurts out.

The woman pauses. One eyebrow lifts up over the edge of her sunglasses.

“Sorry,” Molly says, not sure why she’s apologizing. “But—you are, aren’t you?”

“I think this conversation is better finished in private, don’t you agree?” the woman says, and hails them a cab.

Once inside the car, the woman takes her sunglasses off—and yes, that is definitely Irene Adler.

“I’m very curious as to how you know who I am, Molly,” she says. Apparently they’re on first-name basis, now, Molly thinks, a bit wildly. Irene. She’s sitting in the back of a cab with the only woman Sherlock Holmes ever loved, on the way back from his funeral. This can’t be real.

“I pay attention,” she says, and it sounds paltry, but it’s the truth.

Irene nods. “Yes, I suppose everyone has rather underestimated you, haven’t they?”

Molly says nothing. 

Irene smiles. “John Watson and the entire British Government believe that I am dead,” she says, leaning forward confidentially. “But you’re comfortable around dead people, aren’t you? You know all their secrets.”

“I’m a pathologist, if that’s what you mean,” Molly says, fingers tightening around the strap of her purse.

“Yes, of course you are,” Irene agrees. “But I rather meant that you know what happened to our dear Mr. Holmes.”

“He died,” Molly says, knowing she’s already given too much away, not sure how to get out of this without further betrayal. She’s been holding Sherlock’s secret for a week, and now this. Brilliant, Molly, brilliant. “Wh-why would you think he isn’t?”

“Because I’m very, very clever,” Irene says at once, and yes, maybe this is what Sherlock saw in her, high cheekbones and arrogance and pale, shifting eyes, “because that man would sooner burn a da Vinci than take his own life, and because he helped me fake my second death, so I know exactly how he’d do it.”

“None of that’s proof,” Molly says stubbornly, even though they both know that the fact that she’s sitting here in the cab is proof enough.

 Irene’s smile doesn’t falter. “I don’t want to hurt him, Molly.”

“Right,” Molly says, tongue running away from her, “So you’ve got nothing to hide at all? I suppose you won’t mind if John Watson and the entire British Government find out you’re alive, then, do you?”

“Brave little mouse,” Irene says, as if it’s delicious. “And yes, I am entirely in your hands. I really didn’t think you’d recognize me.”

“But you’re famous,” Molly says, surprised. “You’re practically a celebrity.”

Irene shrugs. “It’s been over two years. People forget.”

“That was a bit careless, then,” Molly dares.

Irene reaches for her clutch, pulls out a thin tube of lipstick. “Not terribly. I could always kill you.”

Molly freezes, and Irene re-touches her mouth.

“I’m not going to, of course,” she says, and blows Molly a quick kiss, evening out the crimson coat over her lips. “That would be a terrible waste. And I really don’t think you’ll tell a soul.”

“Why not?” Molly whispers.

“Irene Adler, back from the dead, and interested in the woman who performed Sherlock’s autopsy? Now, that _would_ make people talk.” And she’s right, of course. Molly can’t risk it.

“I’m still not going to tell you anything,” Molly says.

“Loyalty,” Irene says with a wry smile. “He does manage to inspire it in the oddest people, doesn’t he?”

The cab comes to a stop, and Molly realizes with a start that they’re outside her flat. She reaches for her wallet, but Irene stops her with a hand on her wrist. “Kate works for me,” she says smoothly, and the redhead behind the wheel winks at Molly in the rearview mirror.

“So—so that’s it?” Molly asks, badly unsettled. “You’re just going to let me go?”

“Oh, of course not,” Irene says, and reaches out to gently clasp Molly’s wrist. Her fingers are cool and very, very soft, almost exactly like Molly had imagined they would be. “But don’t you worry about that.” she leans in close, and for a confusing second Molly thinks she’s about to be kissed, but then Irene reaches past her and opens the door.

“I’ll be in touch,” Irene says, as soon as Molly steps out, and then she’s gone, in a flash of black cab, black dress, red mouth and knowing eyes.

 _Well_ , she thinks, a bit dazed, as she walks up the steps to her flat, _at least I’m not alone in this, anymore._


End file.
